I need something. A single tear? An ache in my chest? The will to sing?
Nothing.
I turn the faucet off and wrap the soft towel around my body before finding my way to the closet. No light switches. As soon as I enter, the light comes on. It softens after a few seconds, as though it senses it is too bright. It isn’t the lighting that is too much, it is this closet. Rows of clothes hang, with shoes lining the walls and handbags, sunglasses, and hats upon caps.
I gulp.
Fashion. I like it. It has always been a familiar addiction that I feed on regularly. Why does this closet in particular feel so empty? It isn’t any bigger than the one I have at home. Maybe it is the unfamiliarity. Yes. Yes, that’s it. It is unfamiliar.
I clutch the hem of my towel while reaching for something simplistic. Boyfriend jeans with gashes on the knees and thighs and a crop top that hangs comfortably off me. Now with fresh eyes, I take in the bedroom. The sheets have already been changed—probably while I was in the shower—and the music has changed now. I recognize Beethoven and Jeno Jando’s “Moonlight.” I played it when I was a young teen. It’s Brantley’s favorite.
The four-post bed is on the left side of the room, diagonally to the door, and perfect for the aesthetic of the bedroom. There’s a fireplace at the foot, large windows that hide behind lavish lace curtains, a simplistic office desk, the ZZ plant—convenient since it’s literally the one plant you can’t kill—and a small bar fridge.
Modest, yet candidly elaborate. Everything feels strategically placed for style. What is this place?
I know that once I leave this room and go downstairs, everything is going to start changing. In the back of my mind, I know that.
But I open the door anyway, with that infamous gaping hole in my chest throbbing. The hole that I’m not interested in refilling anytime soon. I guess I don’t know much about who I am. I still don’t know if I died, or if my body is stuck in a hospital and I’m playing in the third realm of life. I feel like a ping-pong ball, being whacked back and forth between the human realm and this—this place of uncertainty. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m dead and I don’t know it yet.
You’re not going to like this journey. Not one bit. I’m going to bend you, twist you, and break you until you’re begging for an exit.
But that’s the way it has to be.
Fog swam around my legs so thick I couldn’t see my feet. It had begun to rise higher and higher, starting at my ankles to now above my knees. There was an archway made from twisted ivy that clawed its way over metal. Dead flowers wilted over crusted leaves, though I was sure they once looked beautiful.
Just not here.
Not now.
And probably not ever again.
I took the steps toward the arch, even though everything inside of me was fighting it. I knew I shouldn’t follow. As a young boy, I knew it. Well, I wasn’t young anymore. I had responsibilities. A need to fight. To live. To bleed. But I knew the hollow darkness that looked back at me from the other side held no promises of me ever returning, but what was the point? What did I have to lose?
Them? No. I didn’t have them. I had nothing to lose.
I took the step through oblivion and found out I did have one more thing to lose.
My mind.
So, we’re going to start this from the beginning. The beginning is where stories need to start, even ones as dark as mine. See, because even evil has a choice…
Saint
“You’re late.”
I take the final step down the glossy marble staircase, my fingers resting on the gold swirls of the rail. “By a few minutes.”
Veronica’s eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t make it a habit.” She curls her finger and turns, gesturing to follow her. “I don’t like tardiness, Hecate. It’s a lazy form of disrespect. If you want to piss me off, at least be theatrical about it. Draw some blood. Commit a murder. Burn down a church. But tardiness?” She turns to look at me over her shoulder while opening two adjoining doors. “Is too basic for my taste.” I was right. She’s Morticia.
I jump at the crashing of the doors being swung open, and before I can answer her about her rant, I pause.
Three girls sit around what is clearly a lounging area. From the cracking of an open fire to the large oversized sofa, it’s about as cozy as a Hallmark movie. It’s cozy, but there’s still an uncomfortable ambiance that hovers around it.
Probably from Veronica.
“Welcome to The Daughters of Noctum, Saint.” Veronica voices, lowering herself onto a single black chair with oversized wings that curve around her shoulders. “Your coven.”
“She looks more like she belongs to Lux, not to Noctum,” a girl snaps, and I find myself studying her. Brunette hair, a heart-shaped face, and bright blue eyes that almost look unreal. She is very pretty.
“Frankie, shut up. That’s what you said about Ivy, and how very wrong you were about that.” A girl with dark skin and green eyes stands, making her way toward me. I’m momentarily paralyzed by her beauty, and not just the obvious beauty, but there is something about her energy that feels euphorically charged and real. Every footstep closer to me is like a rhapsody of light. She wears a gold sequin short dress that hugs her perfectly curved body, but that’s not the first thing that catches my eye.
It’s her necklace.
Just like mine, only where ice falls down my crown, fire is around hers. My shoulders relax.
She stops a few steps in front of me. “Ahh, you’ve just noticed my family heirloom.” Her arms wrap around my shoulders as she pulls me into her chest. “Welcome, Saint. Welcome home, girl.”
She finally releases me and I fall back slightly, my eyes flying around the room to all of the other girls. They’re dressed in gowns as if they’d been out to a ball.
One stands from her chair, brushing her hands down her body while making her way to me. “I’m Alessi,” she says.
Alessi has copper-gold hair that’s twisted into curls and falls to her small waist, bright green eyes, and flawless skin that has a natural tan to it. She points to another girl who is sitting in front of the fireplace with her ankles crossed together.
“That’s Ivy, she doesn’t speak and is almost always reading. And the girl who just pushed her way into your bubble is Ophelia.” Alessi turns around and waves her hand toward Veronica. “And you already met the Wicked Witch of the West—literally.”
I clear my throat, lowering myself onto the large L-shaped sofa. “What am I doing here?”
Veronica pulls a cigarette out of a gold packet, bringing it to her lips and lighting the tip. While she busies herself with her cancer stick, I take in the designs in the room.
“Am I in Rome?” I ask, distracted by the gold, white, and rose gold colors that are artfully painted on the ceiling. The floor is a bright white marble, so shiny that it could almost be a mirror. Everything bleeds opulence. From the furniture to the Neoclassical architecture.
“Yes,” Veronica says, flicking the ash off into a silver tray. “But no.”
Cryptic. This is going to be a long conversation. “Okay. I don’t know why I’m here, but if I could talk to Hector, I’m sure I could make sense of—” I look around at the girls. “Something.”